Celeste De Rossi wasn't used to being followed.
She was used to being worshipped. Obeyed. Feared.
And if someone didn't fall into one of those categories, they were promptly discarded.
Like a fly brushed off silk.
But this one—this shadow in a black suit with ice in his eyes and silence stitched into his jaw—kept following.
Ales.
Vito's new favorite toy.
And today, he was crossing a line.
She descended the marble staircase with feline grace, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, wine-colored lips unsmiling. Her heels clicked like threats against the polished floor. A designer coat clung to her frame, her bare legs gleaming beneath the hem.
She didn't announce she was going out.
She never did.
She didn't have to.
But the second she reached for the front door, she felt the presence behind her.
She didn't need to turn.
She already knew.
"You're not coming," she said sharply.
Ales didn't respond.
She stepped outside.
He followed.
She whirled on him, voice slicing through the estate's courtyard like a whip.
"I said you're not coming, dog."
He met her eyes—expression unreadable, posture calm.
"I'm your protection."
"I don't need protection."
"That's not your decision."
She stalked down the stone path toward the idling black town car, fury rising in her throat like bile.
She threw open the back door and slid inside.
He moved around the front, opened the passenger side, and took his seat without a word.
The driver flinched.
She exploded.
"Are you deaf? I said you're not coming! Get the fuck out!"
The driver's hands trembled on the wheel.
He looked at Ales, then back at Celeste. Sweat beaded on his temple.
"Miss…" he said carefully. "Your father said—"
"I don't care what he said!" she snapped. "I said—drag him out."
Silence.
The driver didn't move.
She leaned forward, fury radiating off her in waves. "Luca. I said drag. Him. Out."
But Luca didn't even look at her now.
He started the engine.
Celeste stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
Then she turned her head slowly.
And looked at Ales.
"You don't speak," she whispered. "You don't flinch. Are you a mute or just so full of yourself you think you're untouchable?"
Ales didn't answer.
He just adjusted his earpiece and looked out the window.
The car moved.
And Celeste snapped.
Twenty minutes later, she slammed her heels down as the car pulled up to the estate's private north wing.
"Take me to my father," she barked.
Ales opened the car door and stepped out first.
"Move."
He did.
But not because she commanded it.
Because it was protocol.
Vito De Rossi's office sat behind thick walnut doors framed by black steel. Two armed guards flanked the entrance—silent, statuesque.
The second they saw Celeste, they opened the doors without a word.
Inside, the Don sat behind a desk the size of a coffin, flanked by two monitors streaming coded intelligence feeds. The air smelled like cigars and power.
He didn't look up when she entered.
"Papà," she hissed.
"Celeste," he murmured.
She threw her sunglasses onto the desk, lips trembling with rage.
"This new one—this thing you've saddled me with—is following me like a flea-ridden dog. I told him no. He followed anyway. I told the driver to throw him out. He refused! Are you trying to humiliate me?"
Vito said nothing.
He reached for his cigar, lit it with a match that hissed in the silence.
She stared at him.
And when he finally looked up, his voice was calm.
Final.
"Alessandro Moretti follows you because I told him to. That makes his presence law."
Celeste blinked.
"But—"
"Silence."
The word struck like a slap.
She drew in a sharp breath, spine stiffening.
"You are reckless. Unpredictable. I've tolerated your theatrics, your tantrums, because they've never risked your life. But the world has teeth, Celeste. And not everyone wants you alive."
"I can take care of myself—"
"No," Vito said coldly. "You can't. You've never had to."
He gestured toward Ales, who stood in perfect silence near the door, eyes fixed forward.
"That man is yours now. He will follow you. Guard you. Die for you. You don't need to like it. You just need to live with it."
Celeste's mouth opened.
Then closed.
Vito leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"If you give him orders to stand down again, I'll lock you in this estate for a month. Am I clear?"
Silence stretched.
Then—
"…Fine," she spat.
Vito leaned back, satisfied.
"You may go."
She turned without another word, stalking out of the office like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Ales followed.
As Ales turned to follow Celeste out of the office, Vito's voice cut through the room again.
"Moretti. Stay."
He paused.
Celeste stopped in the hallway just beyond the door, scoffing under her breath but not looking back.
Ales turned, stepped back into the office, and stood at perfect attention.
Vito rose from behind the desk slowly, cigar burning between two fingers, his pale eyes locked on Ales like a hawk measuring a blade.
"I'm impressed," Vito said quietly. "You've survived her longer than most."
"Thank you, sir," Ales replied evenly. "This is my duty."
Vito walked toward the window, the smoke from his cigar curling around his shoulders like a serpent.
"But where's your team?" he asked suddenly, turning halfway toward him. "Shouldn't all of you be protecting her? Isn't that the protocol?"
Ales didn't flinch. "When Miss came out, she never informed anyone she was leaving. It was abrupt. I followed immediately to maintain the chain. The others didn't have time to catch up."
He paused.
"But rest assured, sir. They were following us. In a second vehicle."
Vito's gaze narrowed. He turned to the window and pushed the curtain aside with two fingers.
Outside, parked at the end of the private driveway, stood a second black vehicle. And next to it—exactly where they should be—were the rest of Team A.
Lena, arms crossed, watching the estate like a hawk.
Cassian and Niko flanking the car.
Juno, chewing gum and spinning a knife behind her back.
Vito stared a moment longer.
Then let the curtain fall.
"Never repeat the mistake," he said, voice cool as steel. "Nothing can happen to my daughter. Not because of a missed signal. Not because of pride. Not because of failure."
Ales bowed his head once.
"Yes, sir."
Vito gave a faint nod.
"Go."
Ales stepped out of the office and walked down the hall.
Celeste was waiting at the edge of the stairs, arms crossed, her eyes narrowed.
Ales stepped out of the office and walked down the hall, footsteps echoing in the silence.
At the edge of the staircase, leaning against the carved railing like a queen barely tolerating her court, Celeste stood waiting.
Arms crossed.
Eyes sharp.
Her gaze burned into him as he approached, but he said nothing.
"So," she snapped, voice laced with venom. "What's your name?"
He stopped a respectful distance away.
"Ales," he said calmly. "Ma'am."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Don't call me that. I'm not eighty. Just call me… Celes."
He gave the faintest nod. "Understood."
There was a long pause.
Then came the twist of her lips—the cruel, dangerous kind of smile.
"So how much did my father offer you to follow me around like a fucking dog?"
Ales didn't blink. "Enough."
"I'll pay you ten times that," she said flatly, stepping closer. "All you have to do is back off. Follow me from a distance. Pretend to guard me. Nod like you care. Like all the others."
His voice didn't shift.
"I can't do that."
She raised one perfectly arched brow. "Why?"
"I don't break my word."
She stared.
Then scoffed.
"How about a hundred times more?"
Still calm. Still steady.
"My answer doesn't change."
For a second, she was silent.
Then her jaw tightened.
Her nails dug into her arm.
"God, you're insufferable," she spat. "Is there a brain behind all that silence or just stone?"
He didn't respond.
That infuriated her even more.
She turned sharply and stalked toward the front door again.
"I'm going out," she growled over her shoulder. "Try not to embarrass yourself this time."
He followed.
Silently.
Unshakeable.
And for the first time, Celeste didn't just feel anger.
She felt the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.